Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Introduction: Many moons ago, a message board I was on had a "survival game." Basically, a whole bunch of spaceships were given a bunch of points and posters could, once a day, remove points from one ship and add points to another. After much back-and-forth, we were left with Serenity with a relative handful of points and the TARDIS with a sizable lead. And then the Browncoats showed up, as we're want to do, and we won. I wrote this blog post on Xanga as a "victory speech." Not having the heart to actually blow up the TARDIS, I found a compromise.

And you're welcome, Amy Clark.

(The
bridge of the Firefly. An exhausted-looking Wash is at the main
controls, with Mal just now rising from the secondary. Jayne stands
nearby, Vera on his hip and still wearing his space-suit.)

Malcolm: Well, that was just plain disturbin'.

Jayne:
Don't know what you're talking about. After a coupla years of no
space-fightin', we had ourselves a real battle. Plenty o' bad ass
spaceships.

Wash: Well, there was that tiandu wu yohn ship that went down first. Not too impressive. And that guy, the vaguely Buddhist one - “The One?” The one what?

Jayne: Well . . .

Wash: Ooo, and then there was that cube! I mean, who wants to pilot a cube?

Mal: Cube was scary, Wash, mighty scary. Took just about all those fancy ships with the people in running suit's to take it out.

Jayne
(chuckling): Runnin' suits. Looked ridiculous, every one of 'em.
(rubbing the bruise on his chin) Guy with the crab on his forehead, he
was strong enough, though.

Mal: But who ever heard of punchin' with an open hand? Likely to break your wrist as hurt a man.

Book (putting his hand on the gun): Hope they're as peaceful as the captain expects. That doesn't sound like a . . .

(the tenth Doctor and Donna fall out of the TARDIS, pursued by a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks)

Doctor
(recovering, but still staggered, nearly collides with Book before
extending a hand and shaking Book's vigorously – his crying of falling
turns into his introduction): Aaaaaaaaaaand who might you be, then?

Book: Shepherd Book . . .

Doctor: Lovely! (turning to Inara) And you are?

Inara: Inara, wel . . .

Doctor:
Lovely! (looking around) Oh, this is a smuggler's ship, and no mistake.
Perfect. Tons of little cubbyholes and hiding places and . . . oh, is
that a hover-mule! Look, Donna, a hover-mule!

Donna
(arms crossed, catches Inara's flummoxed expression): Yeah, he's always
like this for the first bit. He'll run around a while, get all
interested. Take a nap eventually and then he'll be a bit more . . .

Inara: Himself?

Donna: No, no, this is himself, really.

Mal (booking down the stairs): What chwen let our new house-guest play get up on the furniture?

(The Doctor on the hover-mule, pretending to steer, wearing a leather helmet and goggles)

Doctor
(leaping off and bounding over to Mal): And you must be the (Mal levels
his gun at The Doctor from the hip) captain. Huh. Thought you'd be a
friendlier lot than that. Two of you with guns.

(loud clanking from the top of the gangplank – it's the sound of Jayne cocking Vera)

Doctor:
And I think THAT gun counts for three. So you all were part of that
strange little war after all? Even though you never fired a shot?

Mal (to Jayne): I said I was coming down, didn't I tell you to stay . . .

Jayne: No, you didn't. Wouldn't've listened anyway.

Mal: Jayne, I . . . I'll deal with you later.

Doctor
(clucking): Ah, issues with your crew. Well, I don't want to get in the
way of that, so if you could just point me to a spare berth or (Mal
turns his steely gaze back to The Doctor) not. I seem to have arrived at
a bad time. Or, more properly, I seem to have been roped into your ship
at a bad time.

Inara: If we're awake, it's probably a bad time.

Donna:
Look, really simple questions. I have three of them. Everyone ready?
I'll even let you know who can answer them. (silence) Right. One: were
you lot actually part of all that fighting or just caught up in it same
as us? Captain?

Mal:
Just caught up in it, I suppose. I mean, we have some that'd like to
blow us out of the sky and all, but none of 'em fly ships like the ones
we just saw. Question of my own: what brought you lot here?

Donna: Well . . .

Doctor:
Just passing through, really. We were trying to get to the Tiber
Cluster round about seventy million years from now so I could show Donna
a real live actual supernova when the primary temporal buffer panel
went all wobbly. Before I knew it, we were trapped in time, barely able
to move in space, ships zooming all around. We survived as much because
of our shields as anything, and even those were failing. Some sort of
power drain. Anyway, we pulled through and ended up here. Question two -

(during this exchange, Kaylee leaves medbay and sidles up by the captain)

Donna: I'm asking the questions, Doctor.

Doctor: Right, sorry.

Donna: Question two-

Jayne: Can I shoot 'em yet, captain?

Donna:
Question two: If you weren't fighting in that battle, then are you
being so aggressive now only because you're a bit on edge? Everyone?

(silence)

Donna:
Right. So let's just pretend that neither of us is particularly in the
mood to shoot people and see where we go from there.

Mal (putting his gun down at his side, not holstering): Seems a good plan. Your last question, very talkative new person.

Donna: Three: (apologetically) Captain, mind if we stay here for a bit?

(the crew begin talking at once)

Jayne: . . . runnin' a gorram daycare . . .

Kaylee: . . . could use a hand with repairs . . .

Book: . . . as a Shepherd, I should say that . . .

etc.

Mal:
Quiet, the lot of you! This ship is a democracy: one man, one vote. I'm
the man, it's my vote. (turns to The Doctor and Donna) Much obliged to
you both for not trying to kill us but we're full up on crew just now.
We get you to a planet, we'll get you settled but that's the best we can
do.

Doctor
(meandering over to Kaylee): Well, I do think that we could come in
handy for you captain. For example, did you know that the intake
manifold on the primary extrusion engine is going to give way in a week,
maybe less? Leave you drifting, that will.

Kaylee: I TOLD you that manifold weren't right and you wouldn't listen, said we didn't have . . .

Mal: Money, that's right, we don't have the money, so you'll have to make do until . . .

Doctor:
Make do? Make do? This is a 03-K64 Firefly Mid-Bulk Transport, a
classic spacegoing vehicle, preference of scoundrels and anti-authority
vagabonds everywhere. You can have all the money in the universe, but if
you don't love this ship, she'll shake you off like the turning of the
worlds. Love her and she'll keep you flying, let you know what's wrong
before you even notice it. It makes the ship a home.

(silence)

Mal: Might do to remember that, doc, but that don't mean I can just magic up the money to pay for a part.

Doctor
(to Kaylee): Do you have a Z-91 compression coil, two solid-state
cadmium batteries, about thirty inches of copper cable and a pair of
tweezers? Aluminum tweezers?

Kaylee: Don't know about the tweezers, but . . .

Doctor (intensely): Listen. The tweezers are important.

Inara (putting up her hand): I think I have a spare.

Doctor: Fantastic! Problem solved. I can make your manifold for you! When I'm not trying to fix up my ship, of course.

Kaylee: Can we keep him, please!

Jayne: Lio coh jwei ji neong hur ho deh yung dug buhn ja j'wohn . . .

Donna: Oi! Your mum know you talk like that!

Jayne (surprised): She's the one that gorram taught me.

Donna: Cheeky little . . .

(the
crew talks up again, this time louder, ending with Mal shouting them
down again, overlapping with Wash, who's just shown up)

Wash: I have to go to the baaathroom.

Mal: Everyone settle!

Jayne (to Wash): What?

Wash: I wanted to get in on the whining. Am I too late for the whining? Damn, I always miss the good stuff . . .

Doctor: Hobart Washburn!

Wash: Uh, yeah . . .

Doctor: THE Hobart Washburn!

Wash: W . . .

Doctor:
Your run through the ion cloud on the Geserel IV rogue moon just before
the fall of the Parliament – it's the stuff of legend.

Wash: Well, I never . . .

Doctor: Well, no, you haven't. Not yet. But you will. And it's fantastic.

Wash (to Mal): I vote we keep him. I like people who like me. It's a weakness.

Doctor: You lot do seem altogether less . . .

(River
and Simon come out of medbay. River is holding a mechanical arm, still
twitching, with tatters of green skin and black and yellowish cloth)

River: Broken doll, strings cut, no more dancing.

Doctor: scary than I thought . . . you . . . might.

(River sees The Doctor and immediately falls to the ground, hands over her head)

River: The storm, the waves, the crashing sea, salt in my eyes, in my EYES, Simon.

(Simon and the Doctor run to her at the same time as River continues to babble)

River:
Stream runs to the lake river runs to the ocean ocean comes over me
drowing, storm-driven tempest-tossed I don't want your cloven pine
anymore get thee behind me Sycorax Miranda Miranda make me a stone the
dark behind it all the eyes the eyes with no eyes no heart no head just
hate exterminate extirpate extricate the weave and weft the curds and
whey have curdled you were gone gone so long ago and so far from now
torn apart the war the gathering storm you're the last the last but you
aren't supposed to be at all. (sobbing)

Doctor
(using his sonic screwdriver): Oh, my goodness, her brain. Neural
stripping. Alterations of a kind I've never . . . I'd call this barbaric
but it was done with great skill. They raped her mind and left the core
of her naked and exposed. I'd heard of experiments like this, never
seen one close-up before. Horror beyond imagination. (insensely) I
should very much like to find out who's behind this.

Simon: We were just heading somewhere where I hoped we could find out more about her condition, see about healing her.

Doctor:
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. There's no healing this kind of damage,
not in this century, not with what you have. Can't heal her mind, but
there might be hope left for her spirit. Not for a while yet, but it may
come.

Simon: Who are you?

Doctor: The Doctor. And you?

Simon: Simon Tam.

Doctor:
Of course! So that makes the rest of you (points in turn) Zoe Washburn,
Jayne Cobb, Kaylee Frye and that makes you (grabs Mal's hand so
suddenly that Mal drops his gun) Major Malcolm Reynolds.

Mal: Captain. Just a captain.

Doctor:
Right! Getting ahead of myself again. Well, anyway, captain, how about
it? Your crew seems to want me on board and now you know I have ill
intent toward the Alliance. What's not to love?

Mal (looking around): You can stay until your ship's fixed, not a day more.

(Jayne walks away, not bothering to hide his disgust)

Doctor: Captain, I believe this may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Kaylee: Stop by the engine room when you can. I'll get you those parts you were lookin' for.

Doctor: Oh, sure, fabulous.

Donna: Well, that went well.

Doctor:
Yeah, rather. We'll be a week or two here, I'm afraid. TARDIS is pretty
well knocked out of commission but I think I can fix her. We get along
well, the two of us.

Donna: Yeah, I noticed. Sure it's smart to let on to this lot? Bunch of petty criminals the lot of of 'em.

Doctor:
Oh, that. You know those parts I asked for? (Donna nods) Not for a
manifold, though I can make that easily enough from what we have on our
ship. No, that's for a memory eraser. Wipe out the memory of this whole
battle from the crew, and anything to do with us. Best that way.

Donna: Really? What about the girl?

Doctor:
Oh, we'll get to the bottom of that, don't you worry. But I can't bring
this lot into that much danger. (claps hands) Well, to work?

Saturday, September 20, 2014

So, my next campaign is going to use the 13th Age rules. It's a ruleset that combines the "theater of the mind" with basic tactical combat* and has tools that make it easy for the DM to use the setting as "crunch."** It also simplifies character play and DM prep to a monstrous degree which means, naturally, that I'm biting off way more than I can chew when it comes to campaign prep overall.

One of the major narrative thrusts of 13th Age are the Icons. These are personages of such great importance to the world that they're actually a part of the setting - your character's relationship with these figures is something that will affect the course of the campaign, and occasionally you'll have to roll dice to determine how much on an impact they have.

The book presents a list of Icons and they're actually quite good. Really good, in fact, so much so that for the first time I can recall I've actually used setting material from a books without significant modification. I've still worked on some of them, though, and I've put a link below to the document as it stands now. There are probably contradictions throughout, I know, and I'm still missing The Mighty Hero, The Shadow Prince and the True Paladin, but it's a start.

* Combat still uses minis, but on a much simpler map and not 3.x+'s combat grid.
** There are standard saves and standard damages for environmental hazards, so you can make travelling a swamp feel more dangerous than navigating a forest, but without rolling on a random event table every time, giving the DM (and the group) narrative control.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Jon Tripp challenged me to pick the 10
books that influenced me. That's as much as I know about this
challenge, so I'm basing this list on the books that most often quote
and the ones that have had the greatest effects on my personal
outlook. They are in no particular order.

1. The Bible*. This one's kind of
obvious, but it's impact on me has been tremendous. I've read it
three or four times, and portions of it more often than that (I read
the book of James every few days, it seems).

2. A Wrinkle In Time. The first in
L'Engle's amazing series of books, I consider it to be her best. It
taught me that love is always more powerful than hate, that life is
worth living fully and that being smart and being wise are equally
important.

3. Knee-Deep In Thunder. Based on
Native American mythology, this book taught me . . . well, just about
everything about how to deal with conflict. It taught me that there
really aren't bad guys and good guys, there's just us, some of us
worse than others.

4. Small Gods. One of Terry Pratchett's
standalone books in the Discworld series, it's a hilarious book and a
meditation on the nature of faith, and manages to do good service to
both ideas.

5. Ocean At The End Of The Lane. Page
for page, there just isn't a better book, in my opinion. It's
biographical, it's semi-mystical, it's fantasy, it's reality, it's .
. . it's a book about a world that I wished that I lived, a world
that scares me and one that terrifies me. It's all of those things at
the same time and is a book that inspires me to write better and to
write more.

6. Till We Have Faces. It's C.S. Lewis'
best work of fiction, but I also think it's his best work of
apologetics, although I can't quite explain to you how exactly it
does that. That's the reason I love this book - it ignores fiction
and non-fiction conventions in favour of just being good.

7.
DungeonsandDragonsPlayer'sHandbook. No,
those last two aren't actually D&D, but they're carrying on the
tradition of being books that function as a toolkit you can use to
create your own fantasy stories with your friends. I've spent so many
Friday nights doing this with friends, and many of them I'm still in
contact with now.

8. TheNeverending Story. I could tell you about how this story enabled me
to have the courage to walk up to a beautiful young blond woman and
ask her on a date, but that is another story, and will be told
another time.

9. TheGift of Fire. One thing I've always struggled with in man's initial
fall from grace. This book was absolutely vital in helping me come to
terms with that, and with a lot of the other things that drive my
faith in God.

10.
Watchmen. Yeah, I put a graphic novel on here. Read it, if you
haven't, and you'll understand why. It's really pretty amazing. I
mean, I'd always loved graphic novels and comic books, but Watchmen
taught me that it's a medium that simply has no limits.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

I'm a writer. I have been since I was a
little kid. I love telling stories and I'm obsessed with legends and
mythology. When I'm bored, or when I'm excited, or when I'm tired or
wired awake, I'm thinking of stories. I have three or four in my head
right now - a young woman find a ventriloquist's dummy in her
grandmother's attic that looks just like her husband, only it's
actually him turned into a dummy and her mother's a witch; three
hundred years in the future, everyone works dead-end jobs in
cubicles, but at least it's Friday and the weekend's coming soon,
only it never does because we were all hollowed out and replaced with
robots and our mindless tasks are really just the sub-routines of a
planet-sized super computer and the weekend's never coming; a
minotaur and elf queen have fallen in love.

It's quite possible that none of these
things will every end up written down in a meaningful way. I'll write
a couple of lines of dialogue, maybe a description or two. In some
way, shape or form, though, those stories are going to keep playing
in my head. Bits of them will ooze out into other stories, some of
which I'll finish and post somewhere online or maybe send them into
some small journal somewhere.

When people find out that I'm a writer,
but I haven't really published anything, they have one of two
reactions. They either tell me that they're glad that I've found a
healthy creative outlet (I love it when people say this) or they act
like my lack of publication is a horrible thing, and don't I feel bad
that I'm not a great crashing success.

I dislike this very much. I write
because those three stories you read about up there? They've
vanished, for now, and new ones are in their place. At some point,
the brain, it just can't fit any more and some of what's up there has
to get out onto a page or I start losing sleep, get seriously
distracted and, quite frankly, really cranky. It's a outlet in the
same way that venting an overheated radiator is an outlet, it's just
that creative writing is less likely to scald your hand.

Huh. That metaphor sounded a lot better
in my head.

Anyhow, I write because I have to, and
I write because I enjoy it and, quite simply, that's enough for me.
Maybe some day I'll get published, but I'm not going to live my life
in anticipation of it. Frank Turner sums this up for me in I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous.

I am sick and tired of people who are
living on the B-list.
They're waiting to be famous and they're
wondering why they do this.
And I know I'm not the one who is
habitually optimistic,
but I'm the one who's got the microphone
here so just remember this:

Life is about love, last minutes
and lost evenings,
about fire in our bellies and furtive little
feelings,
and the aching amplitudes that set our needles all
a-flickering,
and help us with remembering that the only thing
that's left to do is live.

So, that's my piece. Enough with that.
The rest of this is for the rest of you.

Some of you love to sculpt, but you
don't feel like sculptors. Some of you love to draw, but you don't
feel like artists. For Pete's sake, stop
that. A writer writes, a sculptor sculpts, and an artist, err, arts.
Okay, so maybe you'll never
actually be good at it. Do you like sculpting and painting and
writing? Then that makes it a worthwhile endeavour.

Keep doing it.
Don't let the "professionals" tell you that it's
complicated stuff best left to them. They're either protecting their
paycheck or their ego, and you're ultimately responsible for neither.

Now, to my
Christian brothers and sisters. If you were raise in a church like
the one I grew up in, you were told from a rather young age that,
"Everything you do, you should do as unto the Lord," and
that this meant that you shouldn't spend too much time at
artistic pursuits that produce things that aren't praise to God.

That's his one psalm. Describing it as
"bleak" doesn't quite do it justice. It's painfully, almost
ornately mournful. I've had days like that, though, and if we're
honest, most of us have and it's nice to have this psalm in the Bible
- a reminder that sometimes all you have in you is despair, tempered
by hope, and that it's expected. It doesn't always provide comfort,
but it's good to know you're not alone.

This is
Heman's legacy. This is it, those 18 verses ending with his "praise"
to God, "You have taken from me friend and neighbour—darkness
is my closest friend." If you want to spend an hour or two using
your God-given imagination writing a mash-up of My Little Pony,
Doctor Who and Big Bang Theory, go for it. God loves you with all
your faults and failure. I'm pretty sure he can love you with all
your hobbies as well.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Once upon a time and an age ago, there lived two
great friends, Owaku-sabe and Otara-sabu. They ate together, they
sang together and they trained together. They were, you see, members
of the Emperor’s Guard and had the special duty of guarding his
son, Akime.

Now, most of the people in the land had dark hair,
almond eyes and skin the colour of old partchment. They were a
handsome folk, but Akime stood out among them because his hair was
blond, his eyes blue, and his skin was the colour of fresh cream.
Some thought his appearance was strange, but the two men found him to
be of great character and spirit.

In those days, a man was expected to be skill at the
arts, at sport and at letters and Akime was already skilled in all
three. In addition, he had a curious mind and a gentle heart and so
all those at court wished him well and even the peasants looked
forward to his reign as Emperor. All, that is, except foul Kusato.
She was a witch of the Black Jade who made her home in a cave high in
the mountains. She hated joy and hissed and spat on kindness.

So fierce was her jealousy of Akime that she used
her witchcraft to go into his dreams where she gave him strange
nightmares and visions that made him cry in the night. This left him
dull and disinterested by day and he grew worse with each passing
night. It was dark magic, but no one could find its cause.

Owaku-sabe and Otara-sabu were greatly vexed by this
and very worried, but what could they do? Their finest lullabies
could not soothe him and how could they use their swords against an
enemy that had no form?

After months full of long nights and great anguish,
finally they found a way they might help their young charge from
suffering so. An elderly witch of the White Jade came to court. She
said her name was White Fox and she had been sent by the yama
themselves to break the curse that had fallen on Akime. She had a
powerful magic, but needed sturdy warrior to complete it.

When they were at last able to find an empty council
room in which they could speak with no fear of being overheard, she
explained the spell.

“I can send you into the World of Dreams.
When you arrive there, you will be void and without form, but you are
strong of will and, with my power added to yours, should be able to
take a shape that will serve you there. Then, you must find your
heart-line. You both love the prince, and love him more than all
things, so it should lead you straight to him. Once there, you will
need to defeat the witch that haunts him.”

The two men bowed in assent to White Fox’s wisdom
and two days later, on the night of the new moon, the three gathered
in a nearby orchard. The two men drank a special tea White Fox brewed
while she chanted and sang prayers to many spirits to open the doors
to the World of Dreams and ease the two men into its embrace. They
soon disappeared and awoke in the World of Dreams.

The air reeked of rot. The sky was a gaudy orange,
the trees were so yellow that they hurt to look at, and the stars
sang strange songs as they darted through the sky like comets.
Otaku-sabe and Otara-sabu realized they were without form yet and
concentrated mightily. It worked, though not as expected. Otaku-sabe
was now a great orange tiger while Otara-sabu was a regal white
tiger.

Now that they had forms – unexpected though they
were – the World of Dreams made more sense to them. It was still
not like the waking world, but the colour no longer offended the eye
and the song of the stars had become musical. Their wits now about
them, the two warriors set out to find the heart-line. It was
obvious, a great, lavender-coloured path lead out of the dream they
were in, with only the smallest of branches leading off in other
directions.

They followed it, using their new-found sense of
smell and their acute hearing to keep alert for danger, and soon they
found themselves in Akime’s mind. It was a forest, and the men knew
that each tree was a dream. Almost all of the trees had been pierced
by the fangs of some beast and the trees shook and shuddered even
though there was no wind. They hunted for the beast through the
forest for hours and finally found it.

It was shaped like a man and yet like a beast, a
spider or perhaps a scorpion or serpent, a creature of shadow that
flowed and oozed through Akime’s dreamspace.

"I am Kotaku," the thing said through a
mouth full of jet black fangs. "I am the Ruiner of Hope and the
Destroyer of Faith. I am the Eater of Souls and the Ravener of
Courage. Your prince has made a fine meal but tonight he dies."

The two men leapt as one and struck the creature
mightily, but it flowed around them, taking new and stranger forms
with each attack, such the two soon found that their strength was
fading.

When the two were nearly exhausted, the shadow thing
struck Otaku-sabe a powerful blow and the orange tiger fell as though
dead. Before Otara-sabu could even react to his friend’s terrible
injury, the forest began to glow with a brilliant purple flame that
surrounded his friend who was already rising to his feet. Otara-sabu
realized what had happened – that heart-line meant that not only
did they love the prince, but the prince loved them in return.
Singing of his love for his master, Otara-sabu rallied and leapt once
again at the shadow thing. Otaku-sabe rose and fought as well, and
this time the shadow thing could not flow around them. Every time it
tried, the purple flame rose up and burned away another piece of
shadow. Soon, the last scraps of shadow vanished.

Almost immediately, the trees began to heal of their
wounds and the two tigers were glad, romping and playing in the dream
forest.

The prince awoke to find White Fox sitting by his
bedside. He was startled because his two bodyguards never allowed
anyone into his bedchamber at night, for fear it would make the
terrors even worse, but her manner was gentle and kind and he soon
calmed.

“Why are you here, old woman?” he asked.
“Did you dream?” she asked.Akime frowned. As a
prince, he was not accustomed to a peasant not answering his
questions, but reasoned that if his bodyguards trusted her, he should
trust her as well.
“I did. I dreamed of tigers that fought a
monster made of shadow. It was a good dream.”
“Prince, those tigers were your bodyguards.
I had hoped that their love for you would be enough, but it was not.
They needed some of your spirit as well. The
help you gave them has bound their spirits to you. They will never
again leave the World of Dreams.”The prince tried not
to cry.
“Will . . . will I see them again?”White Fox smiled.
“Yes, every night, in your dreams. And when
you fade into the next life, they will survive in dreams. Maybe
someday they will find another prince to protect.”
“I would like that,” the prince said. He
yawned.
“You need sleep, young prince,” White Fox
said, helping him lie back down and bringing a blanket up under his
chin.
“I do,” he said, closing his eyes. He
opened an eye. “Will you watch me? Until dawn? I have bad dreams,
every night.”
“I will watch, young prince,” she said,
gently stroking his back. The prince closed his eyes and fell asleep
almost immediately. She thought of Kotaku's
body, which would now lie abandoned in her cave in the mountains. It
would take some time, but eventually her spirit would return. The
prince would be long gone, but Kotaku would just turn her destructive
hatred on someone else. She should leave now - there were rituals
that could keep Kotaku from returning for some time, but she would
have to start them soon. Just then, the prince sighed and yawned in his
sleep, content at last. White Fox smiled
and leaned back in her chair.“I will watch,”
she said quietly. “I will watch.”

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

For those who aren't on Facebook, ever day for the last 29 days, I've given a reason for why I love my wife. This is actually for 7/17/14.

When I first met Christy, I knew she was way out of my league. I was right, but not for the reasons I thought at the time.

Through an odd set of circumstances, I ended up going to Houghton College in Western New York. Christy and I were in the same freshman introduction group and at the start of the year, before classes started, we were gathered together on the large green lawn at the center of campus and asked to introduce ourselves. I was looking for a few friends with geeky interests similar to my own. This was just a random gathering of people, though, so I wasn’t expecting much.

I forget what she was wearing – my memory says a dress – but regardless she was dressed up more than most in the group, and way more than me. Not that this was hard. Then, as now, I basically had two modes of dress: casual, and what I wear in the shower. At any rate, she was put together. At my school, if a girl showed up at a fairly informal social event with a dress on, wearing makeup, that was a statement, and usually meant that this was a Serious Person.

We all sat down together and gave our names and an interesting fact about ourselves. Mine was, I’m sure, passionately dorky, but Christy said that she was a cheerleader from a private school in New Hampshire, and lived in a log cabin. That was, as far as I could tell, the end of what I needed to know about this girl.

Cheerleader? I’d been on the high school quiz and debates teams, played in jazz band and senior high band, been president of the student council and the D&D club. I lettered in athletics, though – by managing two girls’ sports teams, scorekeeping for basketball and volunteering at fundraisers and banquets. I was a geek, a nerd and a dork. A cheerleader would want nothing to do with me. This I knew.

A private school in New Hampshire? New Hampshire was where Hollywood types had cabins and stuff, it wasn’t where actual people came from. And private schools? I know of two private schools in New Hampshire, and their annual tuition was more than my parents’ mortgage.

And the log cabin thing? I was a city kid – that was just weird.

Once classes started, I didn’t see Christy much. My high school credits from Canada took care of most of my freshman courseload, and we were in very different majors. Still, it was a small campus and we have a friend or two in common, which is why we were at the same table in the dining hall when one of our tablemates had a seizure.

Christy and a friend chased the ambulance while we all waited back on campus. They came back, but said our friend would need to be monitored for 24 hours straight. We went back to his apartment and each took a four hour shift. In the morning, I bumped into Christy in the hall as I made for the bathroom. She’d just woken up, and hadn’t had the chance to take off her make-up the night before. Her contacts were out and she wore glasses that made her eyes look like pinpricks.

But I thought of what she’d done for our friend, without a thought for her own benefit, and how her face showed no flush of pride as I’m sure mine did. She was just tired. She’d done it because it needed to be done, and she could do it. I said what I was thinking: “Hello, beautiful.”

Now, it must be understood that we were kinda-sorta in relationships with other people at this point, as I recall it. I was dating an on-and-off high school flame, she was dating a Hispanic guitar player named Manuel who would frequently serenade her with music.

As is the way of such things, though, these relationships imploded within a week of each other. Despite the time we’d spent together, we were really just acquaintances, though. I still mispronounced her last name, and she still sometimes said, “Hey,” when she saw me and occasionally called me “Tim.”

Several friends said that we should spend more time together, but the two of laughed it off – we certainly weren’t going to be someone’s “rebound relationship.” We laughed it off pretty much every lunch and dinner where we sat next to each other more and more often, and all the times we hung out in the campus center or down at the snack shop. We made fun of the very notion of dating again as we sat elbow to elbow, making friends change seats if we had to.

I think she knew first. When I got to the dining hall, I’d see her craning her neck to look for me, and I understand I did the same although I don’t recall doing so. One night when we ended up setting across from each other in a snack shop booth rather than next to each other, she said it was all right because, “Now people will think we’re dating,” and winked.

I went back home for a weekend and realized on Saturday that the reason I felt miserable was that I didn’t have her around. I vowed that when I got back on campus, I’d make a move.

Opportunity knocked shortly – there was a movie showing on campus, Casper, and thought I’d ask her out. I confessed my nerves to my roommate, Erich, who admitted with some confusion that he was reasonably certain we were already dating.

The movie was pretty awful. The walk afterward was not.

I don’t know how we ended up holding hands. I’m iffy on how my arm ended up around her waist. I’m foggy on how we ended up facing each other in the moonlight, looking into each other’s eyes. I don’t even remember what I said, exactly, except that it was something to do with deciding that we were actually now dating, officially a “couple.”

This is the part where I’m supposed to say, “and I’ve never regretted it,” but it’s been eighteen years together and there’s no point in being that deluded. There have been moments. Doctor’s appointments, phone calls from the bank, letter from “friends,” moments that make me ask, “Is it worth it?” But every time that happens, every single time, I look at her and see those same eyes I looked into eighteen years ago and realize that it is worth it. Always. Because of her.

The best years of my life are the ones that’ve been twined with hers. I have a hard time remembering a life before her, and I don’t want to think of one without her. Happy anniversary, dear.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

So, parables are an attempt to teach an ethical or moral principle through symbolic storytelling. I think this is a great idea, but sometimes the parables don't make sense to me unless they're explained carefully, and in great detail. So, as a service to my fellow geeks, here's a parable rewritten for geeks.

Luke 18:1-8

Now
He was telling them a parable to show that at all times they ought to
pray and not to lose heart, saying, “In a certain gaming group there was
a DM who was a total viking
hat and did not chip in for pizza. There was a player in that groupy,
and she kept coming to him, saying, ‘I don’t think it’s fair that the
fighter can upgrade his armour for the difference in price while I have
to sell bracers of armour and buy new ones.
I mean, it’s just not fair.’ For a while he was unwilling for it was a
setting detail he was fond of; but afterward he said to himself, ‘Even
though I am a viking hat and do not chip in for pizza, yet because this
player bothers me, I will let her upgrade
for cost, otherwise by continually coming she will wear me out.’” And
the Lord said, “Hear what the jerk DM said; now, will not God bring
about justice for His elect who cry to Him day and night, and will He
delay long over them? I tell you that He will bring
about justice for them quickly. However, when the Son of Man comes,
will He find faith on the earth?

Saturday, June 14, 2014

This was a multipage retrospective on his year, evidently done over several days.

First Grade Memory Book

Illustration:

Top Left - an illustration of his desk.

Top Right - a small figure at the edge
of the picture says, "Eek."

Bottom Left - "I had no friends
yet at this scool."

Bottom Right - "Love You Mrs.
N___"

Text: I was quiet, calm, happy, excited
and scared when I came into first grade. It was weird because I
didn't any friends yet. I befriended everyone by now. But that is
another story. My favorite memory of first grade was learning about
space. That's when we went to the planetarium. It was fun! My
favourite planet is Make Make. I like computer because I get to go on
a computer. The teacher's name is Mrs. Smithurst. I also like her
because she is a lot like me. I do Parent Pickup both getting to and
going home from school. My normal routine is: When I get home I get a
piece of candy. Then at 4:00, I play video games. At 4:45, my brother
and I switch. Resess is fun. I like to hang out at the structure.
Sometimes I play basketball or down in the field. That is what I play
the most. I'm going to play basketball at lunch resess. Everybody in
this school are my best firneds, especially Phoenix, Evan and Rosie.
Why? Because I don't want anybody disappointed. At lunch I have a ham
and cheese sandwich with mustard, gummies if I have any and a piece
of fruit. Sometimes I buy ice cream. It to get Very Very Cherry. My
favourite field trip was the Planetarium. I liked the exhibits. I
even got a butterfly-shaped slink! I tested it at home. It failed. My
mom doesn't work there anymore. I am not going to be in t his school
anymore. I have nothing to fear. Okay, maybe just a little bit. I
have no worries about second grade. I have hopes and excitement. I
have a lot of summer plans. I want to go to Canobie Lake Park. I need
to go to swimming lessons. I don't remember when I take swimming
lessons. After swimming lessons, I go to the pool.

Friday, May 2, 2014

A friend suggested that posting things about your kids only is a bad idea because they don't get input into the process and might find the results embarrassing in the long run. In this case, I'm going to ignore this because my son, Brandon, has written some amazing stories at school and these should be preserved. Names have been removed, but spelling errors have been retained.

Story 1
There is a butterfly that I haven't seen before. The butterfly is driving a monster truck - literaly! You should see it! The truck is red with an open mouth and even a flamethrower.

Story 2
You should walk or ride on a bike, not ride in a car. Cars give off steam. Steam will pollute the air. Polluted air will kill many people. That would be bad.

Story 3
Me and my friends are having a easter egg hunt. I got the biggest egg. "Jackpot!" I shouted as soon as I grabbed the egg. One time E___ couldn't even find his own egg! Another time K____ cracked an egg and found a chick. We ended up winning. The score was 14-11. The bigger the egg, the more points it has.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Are you feeling really important right now? Like everyone's counting on you, expecting you to be the one who makes life better, who'll keep things going? That's a lot of pressure, isn't it?

Maybe you're feeling irrelevant. Like no one cares about you, like if you vanished tomorrow, no one would even notice.

You're wrong. In either case you're wrong.

Here, watch this:

Now, maybe you were feeling pretty balanced before, and that video had the effect on you that it had on me - it made you feel very, very small and unimportant.

When people ask me what I "get out of being a Christian," I think sometimes what they're really asking is, "Why do you matter?" And it's kind of hard to deal with that question because, well, I don't. I mean, not really. Here, another video:

What? Nothing we do matters. Is that even remotely true? Can a Christian believe such a thing and still believe in God?

Yeah. Sort of. Stick with me here.

If you're a Christian, you believe that one day, there will be a "big victory." Some people boil Revelation, Micah, Daniel and bits of Isaiah in a stewpot until they get the notion that they know exactly how the world will end - with a one-world government lead by The Antichrist* versus Israel in a great climactic battle, at which point God will rule the world for a thousand years. Some people think that we build that kingdom here on Earth, that the battle of Armageddon is metaphorical. Still others read the book of Revelation as pure apocalyptic literature that's meant to be read and not necessarily understood and pay more attention to the letters to the churches than anything else.

Whatever. In the end, God wins.

In the end GOD wins. In His time, and His will and by His power. Sure, we have a bit of a role to play. In fact, you can't talk about God's eventual victory without talking about what we're supposed to do:

"But when the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him, then He will sit on His glorious throne.All the nations will be gathered before Him; and He will separate them from one another, as the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats;and He will put the sheep on His right, and the goats on the left.“Then the King will say to those on His right, ‘Come, you who are blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in;naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.’Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and give You something to drink?And when did we see You a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You?When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’“Then He will also say to those on His left, ‘Depart from Me, accursed ones, into the eternal fire which has been prepared for the devil and his angels;for I was hungry, and you gave Me nothing to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me nothing to drink;I
was a stranger, and you did not invite Me in; naked, and you did not
clothe Me; sick, and in prison, and you did not visit Me.’Then
they themselves also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, or
thirsty, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not take care of You?’Then
He will answer them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did
not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me.’These will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”

That's it. Visit those in prison (whether the prison of their mind or body, or, y'know, actual prison), offer food to the hungry and water to the thirsty, be open to strangers and clothe the naked. Be maximally decent to other people.

There's a phrase I heard once at Houghton College. I remember hearing it, but it was in passing by a couple of divinity students and I honestly never figured out what it meant: immanentizing the eschaton. I frankly had no clue what it meant. A few years ago, I looked it up. It refers to bringing Earth into it's final form, ready for God to come down and destroy it and/or save it.** To immanentize is to make something immanent, to make it real. The eschaton is the end of all things.

This is kind of ridiculous on its face. Here we are, a mere couple billion humans *** scraping across the barest crust of our planet, believe that, in service to an infinite God of infinite power, we can set things up just right so that we can read his inscrutable and impossible wisdom to bring about his fiery and destructive return. Seriously? When the border between summoning Cthulhu and worshiping God becomes that blurry, it's a good idea to step back and reconsider your ecclesiology a bit.

So, immanentizing the eschaton is out.

We still need to be about the business of immanentizing, though, of making things real.

" I fought for so long for redemption, for reward and finally just to beat the other guy, but I never got it," Angel says in the video above.

I did that I lot. I still do. I do the things that I do and I act like they're victories or something that justifies my other excesses, or that should curry favour with God or with man. Sometimes just because I think that they make me better than other people. And I'm wrong, each and every time.

I don't want that. I want to help because I don't think people should suffer as they do.

Immanentizing righteousness.

* There is no Antichrist. Well, rather, there are lots of little antichrists. I John has more to say about that. (Oh, and yes, if you cross the streams and combine 2 Thessalonians with 1 John, you kind of get the idea there might be one Antichrist whose sort of like the boss at the end of the video game. This has lead people to identify various figures in Revelation as The Antichrist - the beast from the earth is popular right now, but it used to be the beast from the earth and, for a little bit, even the Whore of Babylon got in on the action. To be clear, from the description of their behaviour, I think both apostles, John and Paul, would be totally cool with calling them antichrists.)

In 1992 I went to Canada's Wonderland
a lot. I went on the rides, sure, but I spent a lot of time at the
arcade. 1992 was a fantastic year for arcade video games for three
reasons, in my opinion: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, X-Men and
Captain America And The Avengers. All three were sidescrolling action games where you fight
through a bunch of little bad guys before battling a boss. Rinse, repeat a
half dozen to a dozen times and, whammo, you've beaten the game.*

Doing well at these games requires
reflexes, timing and an ability to figure out how the bad guys are
going to attack and getting out of the way. I loved that part of
these games, and could spend ten minutes on a single quarter before
making a miscue and having to feed the beast again.

This was also the summer of Street
Fighter II. On its face, it would seem to have all the qualities I
like - reflexes, timing and strategy - but in practice, no so much.
The game had six buttons in a time when most games had two, and your
opponent was randomized, making it harder to get really good at it. Also some of the fighters were simply at a serious disadvantage against certain opponents.
Still, I played enough to be familiar with the characters.

One day in the summer of 1992, I was
rocking out at X-Men. A trio of high school seniors joined in with me
and we fought our way through a few levels before two of them got
bored and moved on. Adam, the one guy who stayed was obviously not
all that familiar with video games and was fascinated by the way I
played, beating seemingly impossible boss guys by moving and dodging
at just the right moment.

We beat the game, and he asked if I'd
stick around and show him how to beat the early levels. The rules of
high school meant that I was obliged to anyway, but I was more than
happy to stay - my nerdy self was proving helpful to a high school
senior, which was somewhat unprecedented.

The X-Men machine was right next to
one of the four Street Fighter games, the one with a little flicker
on the right side of the screen. Now free from button-mashing, I
noticed something. An older kid, maybe in his early twenties, was
hanging out across from the game, waiting for someone to come up and
play single player. If it was a kid my age or older, he'd leave them
alone, but if it was a younger kid, he'd drop in his quarter, kick
the kid around in the game a little bit and send them off frustrated.
Then he'd throw the next round and settle back and wait for a new
victim.

See, Street Fighter was set up to be
played one of two ways. Either you'd play solo, fighting against a
roster of bad guys until you get to the boss fight, or you'd fighter
against another player. It was kind an unspoken rule that if someone
was playing single player, you left them be until they'd lost to the
same opponent a few times, at which point you could step in. You
always asked, too. This guy didn't. He was stepping in on the games
of kids a decade younger than he was for the sole purpose of making
them waste a quarter. A griefer, in other words.

Griefers are people who take advantage
of weaknesses in a game's program to frustrate other players. They
don't necessarily care about winning, exactly, they just get pleasure
out of aggravating people. Griefers are, in a word, annoying.

I dislike being around annoying
people.

"Hey, Adam," I said, trying
to keep my voice down, but loud enough to be heard in the arcade,
"How many quarters do you have left?"

"Ten bucks or so. Why?"

"There's a guy who's picking on
kids on that Street Fighter game."

"That sucks. You want quarters to
beat him?"

"No, I want you to play Street
Fighter."

At the time, I thought that Adam gave
up at the moment because he realized the brilliance of my plan, but
in fact he had just come to the Savage Land level on X-Men. Anyone
who's played the game and had to fight off those blasted pteranodons
can understand why he actually quit.

"I only know, like, one guy in
that game."

I shrugged, and then lied. "I
only know one guy, too. We play each other, there's three rounds,
each a minute long if we play it right."

Adam smiled nervously.

"Dude, he's going to get mad."

"So what."

Adam smiled again, this one a
conspiratorial grin, and walked over to the game.

We started playing around 11. For the
first little bit, we would stand there dancing around the screen
until 10 seconds left in the match, then go all out until the end of
the round. The third round we'd fight beginning to end. After about
half an hour of this, we were actually getting pretty good. The
griefer was still there, though, when one of the employees came up
and commented that we were taking up a lot of time on one of their
most popular games.

I forget which of us said it, but
either Adam or I pointed out that there was no line and that this
game had a glitchy screen anyway. The employee nodded and prepared to
move on, making the final cryptic comment, "I could beat you
guys with Ryu's right arm anyway."

Gauntlet thrown. Gauntlet picked up.

We continued to pick our fighters as
normal, but now also announced what moves we were going to use in our
fight. Blanka, feet only. Honda, hands only. Guile, sonic booms only.
We continued like this for a while until I realized there were two
kids lined up behind us, and that the griefer was gone.

"Adam," I said, nodding to
the kids as I hit his character with an uppercut that made a tiny
Asian woman clap faster than nature would permit.

"K," he said.

The match ended, and we stepped away.

This was adolescence - I never got
Adam's last name, and, so far as I know, we never crossed paths
again. It didn't matter. We collaborated to take care of a bully in a
way that works only under a few circumstances - we beat him by
ignoring him.

On social media, as in life, there are
people who feed on your frustration and anger. This is a terrible
thing. For them, though, not for you. See, you can be a full,
well-rounded person who is strengthened by friendship, by a
relationship with God, by any number of things that aren't awful.
These people who feed on frustration and anger? That's an awful way
to live, but getting frustrated and angry about it is the opposite of
helpful.

I'm not saying that all bullies can be
beaten by being ignored - I've worn glasses since I was eight,
started playing tabletop roleplaying games when I was nine, and have
been a clumsy, pudgy guy who typically doesn't know well enough to
shut up all all along, so I've attract the attention of a few bullies
in my day.

No one has the authority to push you
down, literally or metaphorically. No one has the right to make you
feel like a failure just for being you, or the privilege of making
you feel lesser. It's just not something given to humans that they
ought to do to each other. And ignoring people who try, by yourself,
probably won't work.

A few years before the story I relate
above, I was a "minor niner," a freshman in high school,
and getting picked on by a few older kids. I generally carried two or
three novels with me at a time. One for light reading (Hitchhiker's
was good for this), one for medium reading (something by Poul
Anderson, at around that time) and one for heavy reading (I remember
this time it was Timothy Findley's "The Wars," which I
filched from my sister's room not knowing it was a book she was
assigned for English class). They were thumbing through them and
laughing, reading bits and pieces in silly books and threatening to
rip out the pages.

Despite my status as a freshman, I'd
caught the attention of some of the upperclassmen because, as
mentioned previously, I talked a lot. Despite being a chunky kid, I
held my own in the locker room when it came to banter and some of the
guys, especially two of the wrestlers took a shine to the little guy
who "talked above his weight class." It was when the fate
of my books seemed most dire that one of the wrestlers came by. He
took the books back casually, commenting pleasantly on each one and
commending the bullies' choice of literature, and handed them back to
me.

He clapped one of the bullies on the
shoulder and said, "You guys have a great day. I really hope I
see you around." The subtext in that last sentence was palpable
- it was pretty clear that if he saw them picking on me again, bad
things were going to happen.

I think it comes down to herd politics
- if the zebras outnumber the hyenas, and have enough strength to
hold a line against them, they can starve out the hyenas. So, do your
part.

Know someone who's being bullied at
school? Don't get angry and frustrated, that just feeds the beast.
Walk with them. Encourage your friends to do the same, until that
kid's rolling three deep between classes.

A victim of bullying? Put together
your herd. Not a gang, not a fight club, just a group of people you
can walk with. Try to get an older kid to walk with you.

A victim of bullying online? Here it
gets tricky. We have this natural urge to talk back online, to defend
our righteous position. That's usually a good thing, but here it's
not. Ignore them, unfriend them, delete them, just put them away.
Don't announce it, just do it, and once you only have your friends
standing with you, it will get better.

None of these solutions are perfect,
but talking with some friends online about bullying lead me to write
this as these are things I've found worked for me. I had a bit of an edge, socially, that other people might not. Good luck out
there.

* If anyone ever comes out with a game that consists entirely of 90s arcade game boss fights, they will have my undying gratitude.